by Dani Wade
“Night, sweet cheeks.”
She jerked upright, returning Patrick’s smile as he sauntered out the door. Blushing, she turned to find Sloan leaning against the doorframe connecting their offices.
“You look tired,” he said, his gaze scanning her face. “Am I driving you too hard?”
His sensual tone added deeper meaning to his words. She shook her head, her throat too tight to speak.
He reached for her arms, rubbing his hands along them in light, comforting strokes. “Why don’t you go ahead home?” He nodded toward his open office door. “I still have some work that needs to be finished tonight.”
She knew she should do exactly that. She should go home, rest and have a good night’s sleep. Nibbling on her lower lip, she realized she didn’t want to do what she should. That wasn’t how she wanted to spend her evening. Studying the fatigue darkening Sloan’s normally vibrant eyes, she realized she wanted to take care of him. Ease a little of the strain he was under. She chose not to wonder why but to just act.
“Why don’t I go get something for dinner and bring it back here?”
As surprise lightened his eyes, she spoke faster. “It would save you some time. You wouldn’t have to stop working as long and could get done sooner. I don’t mind—”
The rush of words ended when he placed his lips over hers. She leaned into the gentle kiss for a moment. He pulled back until their lips barely brushed against each other.
“That sounds great,” he breathed.
Her chest flooded with warmth as he pressed his mouth over hers once more, then returned to his office.
She tried not to be overly pleased as she raced home and changed into a gypsy skirt and tunic that she belted low on her hips. Though she never went out anywhere without her hair confined in some way, tonight she let it down and brushed it, the long strokes heightening her anticipation.
Sloan’s obsession with her hair only grew. He was constantly touching it, burying his hands in it, especially as he rode her to climax. She was anxious to see how he reacted to her wearing it down at the office, even if it was after hours.
She stopped by a replica fifties diner near the office and ordered the deluxe burger and fries Sloan indulged in every so often, with a chicken salad sandwich for herself, before rushing back. When she walked through the office door, his eyes scanned her slowly from the tips of her strappy heels to the crown of her jet-colored hair. His gaze narrowed as it returned to her face.
“Oh, you so don’t play fair,” he said.
Her laughter floated around them as they spread the food on the small table in Sloan’s sitting area. They ate in silence, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city lights. His eyes frequently rested on her hair. It felt so good to be free, to enjoy the moment.
“Why do you and Vivian fight so much?” Ziara asked, her earlier concern about the older woman still lingering in her mind. “It isn’t just the business, either. You two seem at odds about most everything.”
Sloan took his time chewing and swallowing. Ziara thought he wouldn’t answer, though his face remained relaxed and open.
“She married my father when I was a teenager. I’m sure that rough adjustment period set some bad patterns in how we relate to each other.”
He took another bite, chewing slowly, distracted by his thoughts. Her eyes strayed to the working muscles of his jaw and throat.
“My dad and I had a pretty laid-back arrangement until she came along. I don’t know if she told him to take me in hand or what, but after their marriage it was rules, rules, rules and ‘this is how we expect you to act.’”
“At the risk of sounding clichéd, at least someone cared,” she said, forcing any self-pity from her voice.
Besides the dead bolt she’d installed on her door, she’d stayed as far from home as possible. Often she ended up being at the public library until closing. She’d gotten a job at the local drugstore at sixteen, working her way up to assistant manager, saving every penny until she could leave town and lose herself in Atlanta. Her mother hadn’t cared about her while she was home. She probably cared even less now.
His eyes snapped in her direction. “Do you know how Patrick and I met?”
“You said you met in high school.”
He nodded shortly. “And he was my roommate in college. I was assigned to that room because I listed my original major as fashion design.”
Ziara frowned. “I didn’t realize—”
He broke in. “Vivian hated the idea. She told my father that I’d need a business degree if I wanted to run the company one day. He decided if I didn’t change my major, he’d cut me off.”
And he still hadn’t gotten to run the company. The urge to defend his younger self rose, but she choked it back. “You and Patrick remained friends?”
“I know Vivian thought it was to spite her—and we got a kick out of rubbing her nose in it.” He grinned. “But Patrick and I had become close by then. He taught me a lot about the design business that my father never did.”
Just as Ziara was learning a lot more with Sloan than Vivian had ever taught her. “And he was the first person you turned to when you needed...a designer,” she said, standing up to gather their trash.
“And he expects nothing more of me than to be myself and work hard to create success. I respect that.”
As he came up behind her and kissed her on the neck, she wondered if he’d added the last bit for her benefit. Was he telling her what he needed out of a relationship?
No expectations? No commitment?
She frowned. She wouldn’t be one of those women who turned into a clinging vine the minute a man showed any interest. As she shifted in Sloan’s arms, she vowed to do the same as Patrick. She would enjoy the part of Sloan she had for as long as she had him.
She savored his hold until his guiding touch turned her toward him.
“I’ve waited long enough,” he said.
He pulled her over next to him on the leather couch. She had a quick thought that she must have truly lost perspective to be doing this in his office before she could only focus on Sloan and his hands in her hair.
Later, much later, she woke alone on the couch. Disoriented, she sat up. Cool air caressing her skin reminded her of her nakedness. She grabbed the blanket Sloan must have covered her with and wrapped it over her shoulders.
Glancing around, she spotted Sloan hunched over his father’s drafting table near the window, absorbed in the paper before him. He didn’t look up as she hastily dressed, noting the clock read nearly one in the morning.
Walking to where Sloan stood, she peeked around his shoulder. To her surprise, the drawing was one of the designs for the fall show. The lingerie designs.
The table was covered with drawings in various stages of completion. They were classically beautiful—delicate, colorful and feminine—not slutty as she’d feared from the first. The designs were delicately sexy, with an exotic flavor that drew her.
“These are beautiful, Sloan,” she said.
He grunted, seeming lost in thought. “What they need to be is finished.”
She smiled. If she knew anyone who thrived under the pressure, it was Sloan. He might dislike—okay, hate—external expectations, but when it came to his expectations of himself, he didn’t just meet them. He exceeded them.
But she was surprised by these drawings. They were his. Sloan’s. Not Patrick’s. Not Robert’s. Not Anthony’s. Sloan drew with sure strokes, bringing the design to life by catching the fluidity of the fabric, the lace detail and the fit against the body beneath. Compared to the one design sketch he’d shown her before, these were easily Picassos. And he’d kept them secret from her all this time.
She felt blown away—a bit sad that he hadn’t told her before now—but blown away, nonetheless.
The scratch of pencil on paper continued a moment; then he froze. With extra care his eyes lifted to meet hers.
“Hey there,” she said, residual emotions sharpening her tone just a bit. “Remember me?”
His jaw worked, allowing her to gauge the tension gripping him. Keeping her voice calm and free of accusation, she asked, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
Um, ouch.
Something of her reaction must have caught his eye because he started throwing out excuses. And they actually made sense. “I’ve always drawn, always wanted to learn more about design, but never got the chance once I changed my major. After Dad died and Vivian forced me out of the company, I didn’t see the point. But I’ve always wanted to try.”
“Is Patrick some kind of front?”
His smile was a bit lopsided. “Hell, no. He’s had to give me a crash course ever since he came home. Without him this would be a disaster. I’ve drawn up building plans for years.” He looked over the pages before him, a kind of fascinated pride brightening his already light eyes.
“But why keep it a secret?” She struggled to keep disappointment out of her voice.
His mouth twisted. “You’ve seen how Vivian reacted to Patrick. Do you think she’d have signed any kind of agreement if she even remotely knew I would be in on the actual designs? Hell, my ideas for the show were shot to hell and back, but in the end she had no choice but to accept it.” His naked shoulders lifted in a shrug, drawing her attention away from his sardonic grin for a moment. “It was one less battle to fight.”
Which made sense, but she couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t told her. Didn’t he think she’d understand after everything they’d said to each other, done with each other?
Maybe he didn’t trust her as much as she’d thought he did.
* * *
Returning to the scared-rabbit mentality of her childhood had never been one of Ziara’s life goals, but these days she found herself fearing the world around her like that lost, lonely child once more.
She wasn’t entirely sure how to stop it. Throughout the next week, anxiety rolled over her whenever Sloan wasn’t with her. Even though it was a stupid, feminine insecurity, she realized she wasn’t as immune to the disease as she would have hoped.
Which was why she was awake at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning instead of curled up in the arms of the only man to ever inspire her to snuggle. He’d slipped into her bed after a really late night at the office and slept the morning away. But here she was trudging to the kitchen for some coffee, rather than waking him up.
When a knock sounded on her door, her heart jumped. Please don’t let that be Vivian. All she needed was to confirm Vivian’s already glaring accusations by having Sloan walk out from her bedroom in his favorite pajamas—his birthday suit.
When she opened the door, she stood for a moment in puzzlement. The woman’s face wasn’t familiar to her, but one look at her clothes and Ziara almost had a heart attack.
“Mom?” she croaked.
Her mother cracked her gum in the same way she’d been doing all her life. “I told you not to call me that, remember?”
I’ve done my best to forget. “Sorry. What can I do for you, Vera?”
“Aren’t you going to let me in?” she asked.
Ziara didn’t move, but shock kept her from shutting the door in her mother’s face. She’d never prepared for this scenario, never dreamed her mother would track her here to Atlanta—or even care enough to want to find out where she was. This situation was completely alien, but anger started to seep around the edges of her confusion.
She wasn’t about to taint her home with even a hint of bad memories. Pushing forward, she met her mother on the porch and closed the door firmly behind her. “What are you doing here?”
Vera knew Ziara better than to play the loving-mother card. “Well, I saw your picture in the newspaper, looking all fancy, prim and proper. Almost didn’t recognize you.”
Probably because she hadn’t seen Ziara, truly seen her, since before she’d hit puberty. “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, at my house.”
“Well, if you wanted to hide, you shouldn’t put Z. Divan in the phone book. I picked up on that right off.”
As her mother prowled the porch, Ziara performed her own inspection. The years hadn’t been kind, by any means. Not surprising, since her mother had started binge drinking about a year before Ziara left for good. Her once-thick, shiny hair had been teased to lift its lifelessness. Wrinkles radiated from her mouth as if she’d taken up smoking, hard. But one thing remained the same: her clothes. The skintight animal prints hadn’t looked good ten years ago, much less now.
“Right nice place you’ve got here, Ziara.” She paused to peek inside the window along the side of the door. “Right nice. I always knew you would land on your feet.”
I certainly did, with no help from you.
As Vera droned on about the house, Ziara found it easy to shut her out. There were no excuses, no changes her mother could make to establish a relationship between them—if that’s what she was looking for here. Seventeen years had been opportunity enough. Even if it made her a bad person, she wasn’t going to soften her heart for a woman who would put men and money ahead of her own child.
A child who had been haunted by those choices for her entire lifetime.
“Yep, you’ve done good. Better than I expected.”
“I know.” Anger seeped into Ziara’s voice, making it hard and cold.
Vera stopped in her tracks as if just now getting the message. Her eyes homed in on Ziara, almost closing from all the mascara gooped on her lashes. “Guess you did get some of my genes, after all.”
“Excuse me?”
Reaching into her cleavage, Vera pulled out a crumpled piece of newspaper to wave in front of her. With a quick snatch, Ziara was staring at the picture. In the foreground stood Vivian and Robert, discussing something with the reporter, but it was the background that caught her attention.
She and Sloan faced each other across one of the fabric tables. She looked as circumspect as she always did at work, but it was his expression that gave away the true nature of their relationship. She could just imagine the wolfish comment that would accompany that look on his face. Someone would have to be searching to notice, but she was pretty sure Vivian would look closely if given the chance.
Vera turned back toward the window. “That boss of yours looked like he could eat you up. Judging on his looks and money, I’d let him if I were you.”
A shudder worked its way down Ziara’s spine, the picture of Sloan even now sleeping in her bed burning in her mind. Despite the differences in their incomes, Vera and Vivian probably viewed this situation in a very similar manner. But what she felt for Sloan couldn’t be reduced to a simple paycheck.
“Why are you really here, Vera?”
The other woman’s back stiffened. “Well, I figure I fed and clothed you for seventeen years. Now that you’re on your feet, payback would be the grateful thing to do. I’ve had a few setbacks lately, and I can’t work—”
I just bet you can’t. “Actually, Mother, the state paid for my raising. I took the checks to the bank every month, remember? I bought the groceries with the food stamps I managed to salvage from your purse. I raised me. Not you.”
Anger sparked in the other woman’s faded brown eyes. “I don’t think so, you ungrateful brat. I worked on my back every day, something you never appreciated. And now you’re going to make sure I never have to worry about money again.”
Ziara crossed her arms over her chest. “This is ridiculous. Why would I give you money?”
“Because you want your next job to last longer than this one.”
She froze. “What is that supposed to mean?”
&n
bsp; “I could pay your boss a little visit. Put a little bee in his ear. After all, you certainly didn’t earn those skills on your own. And I can do the same to your next boss, and your next, and your next. I’ll follow you around like a bad penny until I get what I want.”
Even though it was something she’d feared her entire adult life, she found herself saying, “They won’t all hold me responsible for your actions.”
“No, but they can hold you responsible for yours. After all, you did sleep with your boss, didn’t you, dearie?”
And wasn’t that the pickle she’d put herself in? Vera couldn’t prove anything, but Sloan would know the truth. She had slept with him. Could she make him understand it was for love...not for money? Feeling sick, imagining what this woman would say to Sloan, she sank against the brick wall. “What do you want?” she mumbled.
“A salary of my own. You’ll pay me every month to keep my mouth shut and stay at home. A nice home, not that nasty trailer I’m living in now.”
Anger returned with the strength of a lightning bolt. “Like hell I will.” She stalked closer, now the hunter rather than the hunted. “I’m not going to pay you a dime, Vera. I’ve paid enough for being your child. I’ll just go to the police—you know blackmail is a federal crime, don’t you?” Ziara wasn’t sure whether it was or not, but her mother wouldn’t know the difference.
Vera paled, backing toward the door. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, I can and I will. Who do you think they’ll believe, Mother? Me or you?” Securing Vera’s arm with a firm grasp, Ziara led her off the porch and around to the driveway. A beat-up Chevy Cavalier rested at the curb, looking barely capable of going twenty miles, much less the eighty-five between Macon and Atlanta.
“Just remember this.” Ziara turned Vera to look at her. Staring into those brown, sad eyes, Ziara felt her heart softening but forced steel into her voice. “I will not be manipulated. Neither will Sloan. So get back in your car and drive south. I don’t want or need a mother anymore. I never did.”
She waited until Vera pulled away before returning to the house. Once inside with the door firmly locked, she rested her head against the solid wood. She wouldn’t cry—Vera had lost that hold on her a long time ago. She wouldn’t worry—surely her mother wouldn’t risk prosecution in order to get money from her. She wouldn’t relent—Vera had made her bed a long time ago.